


A Change is Gonna Come

by Nicrenkel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Hope, Love, M/M, New York, Peace, Road Trips, Rock and Roll, Smut, Woodstock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-10-28 19:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicrenkel/pseuds/Nicrenkel
Summary: I wrote this as a Happy Birthday gift for my lovely friends, Jackie and Lorraine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J_Q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/gifts), [Raine_on_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_on_me/gifts).

> I wrote this as a Happy Birthday gift for my lovely friends, Jackie and Lorraine.

.

**Friday, August 15th, 1969**

Ian Gallagher walked contentedly along the stretch of newly completed highway road, the scent of tar still lingering in the thick summer air. 

A gust of wind played at his hair, tickling it across his cheek. He tucked a section of it behind his ear, the length of it almost reaching his shoulder. He laughed as the wind blew it back up and over his head.

He took in the breathtaking sights around him. The lush green of the forest to his right; the sprawling field of healthy grass on the opposite side of Interstate 90. The sky was an encouraging blue, with white clouds promising him a rain-free walk. 

_There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be._

He smiled at the thought.

Tilting his face upwards to greet the sun, he paused his steps, shifted his rucksack higher onto his shoulder, and held both arms out at his sides in salutation.

He embraced the wind swirling around him, playing at the untucked hem of his blouse, fully unbuttoned and hanging loose around the waist of his jeans. 

The highway was quiet on this lonesome Friday morning, most drivers already well into their work routines. Though he had hoped to hitch a ride the moment he’d left the south side, Ian was content to enjoy the uninterrupted peace that surrounded him.

And then he heard it. Rumbling in warning long before it reached him, the impending vehicle screamed a tale of neglect, with an exhaust system problem to boot.

Glancing over his shoulder, he took mental note of the equally unappealing exterior. Whoever owned this microbus was either further down on their luck than Ian was, or really hated their mode of transportation. 

Deciding to keep himself open to new experiences, Ian wondered if he could mentally drown out the grinding sound from the inside of the van long enough to get him outside the greater Chicago area. 

Hoping for the best, he held out his thumb, extending his long arm to make his request for a ride clear and visible.

He almost missed the middle finger the man in the driver seat extended his way, as the van rumbled so loudly that it shook the entire vehicle. 

Ian sighed and shifted the backpack quietly threatening to slip from his shoulder. 

It was going to be a long walk to New York.

.

It was about twenty minutes later, after a few more failed attempts at hitchhiking that had only just begun to wear down Ian’s resolve, that he came across a familiar sight. 

The rusty, mint-green microbus that had sailed past him earlier was now parked without ceremony on the side of the highway. The driver stood haughtily amongst a pile of spare parts, scowling at the van as Ian approached. 

A new tire stood propped against the exterior, but no move had been made to change the busted flat tire still attached to the axle. Instead, the angry blonde was kicking at something, swearing with his mouth full of thumb knuckle. He pulled the bleeding digit out of his mouth long enough to shout “lazy bitch”, and scowled deeper.

“Now is that any way to talk to such a fine piece of work?” Ian teased. 

The blonde whipped his head in Ian’s direction, eyebrows skyrocketing. “The fuck did you just say?”

“I’ve got some experience fixing vehicles. I could help.” 

He squinted at Ian, cigarette dangling from his lips as he spoke. “What’s it to you?” 

“Can change the tire for you…” he stuck out his chin, hoping to exude some authority “in exchange for a ride.”

The driver eyed Ian up and down, skeptically. “You one ‘a those draft dodgers?”

Ian felt a chill run up his spine at the mention. He tried to keep his expression neutral. “No. Was never drafted.”

They stood in silence, both buried in thought. The driver clearly had strong feelings on the issue, if his stiffened body language was any indication.

He considered Ian for a long moment, scratching at his oily hair before wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “‘Cause I ain’t goin’ to Canada or nothin’. Going straight to New York.”

“That’s perfect! That’s--” he cleared his throat, trying to tamp down his excitement. “That’s where I’m headed. 

The older man sighed. He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have at it.”

Ian hurried to the ground, collecting the scattered parts he’d need for a quick change. “This thing braking okay?”

He uncrossed his arms and inched closer. “If it ain’t broken now, it will be sooner or later.”

“No, I mean…” Ian faltered off, laughing quietly to himself and refocusing on the task at hand.

The man watched Ian vigilantly, like he thought Ian was going to take off with the offending tire. He kicked at some rusty bolts, combat boot laced high and caked in dirt. 

Ian took this moment to eye the man’s dark khaki cargo pants, disappearing under an Army-issued camouflage jacket, arms cut off to form a makeshift vest. The dark green tank top underneath was dirty and soaked in sweat.

“You serve?”

“Huh?”

Ian gestured towards the man’s outfit. “Were you a soldier?” He smiled softly, out of respect. 

The man’s face deepened into a hard scowl. “Man… fuck Vietnam!” 

He spit onto the ground next to Ian and stormed off. He climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. 

Ian quickly resumed his work, silently hoping the man wouldn’t drive off without him. 

.

The blonde gripped the wheel tight as he drove well past the speed limit. Ian nervously eyed the white-knuckled grip.

“Um… nice finger tats?” 

The man eyed him with suspicion. “Yeah. For anyone who needs a _beat down_.” He chuckled, and then quickly returned to his deep set scowl. “I’d never let them send my ass over there. They’d have to fucking catch me first.”

He honked at the car ahead of them, having committed the unforgivable crime of driving the speed limit. “Get off the road, grandpa!” He swerved around the Lincoln Continental, an elderly man smiling innocently behind the wheel. 

“I used to want to be a soldier, when I was a kid…” Ian started. “Back when I used to watch The Rebel with my brother. D’you see it?”

The blonde shook his head. 

“He fought in the Civil War, and then he decided to go exploring the Wild West. He’d fight injustice, and he carried around his dead dad’s sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.” Ian smiled at the memory, and then shook his head. “Lip and I used to play around in the backyard all the time. With real guns! No bullets, though.”

The driver furrowed his brows. “I knew a Lip. Smart mouthed little fucker. Ended up becoming a priest, or some shit.”

Ian grew quiet. 

The man flicked an eyebrow. “Oh, s’that your brother? Shit, man, I’d never make it a day as a priest. I’d bang the first chick that walked by, and they’d kick me out.”

“Yeah, that didn’t work for him, either.”

The man studied him for a moment. “He got drafted?”

“Yep. Called up his lottery number. He tried to say he was a conscientious objector, but nobody bought him as a Quaker or a Jehovah’s Witness. The priest thing was a bust from the start.”

The driver fell quiet, chewing at the inside of his cheek.

“Our sister ran through a whole list of things to try… suggested he get married. He said that they changed that rule in ‘65. Thanks to Vietnam, nobody gave a shit if you were married, anymore.”

Ian glanced at his companion, then continued. “Was already kicked out of college by then. Drunk and disorderly behavior.” He held up a fourth finger, tapping at the tip with the pointer finger of his other hand. “We were hoping they’d consider his job an ‘essential civilian job’, or whatever. But they didn’t consider a mechanic to be all that important. ‘Specially not one who specialized in motorcycles. He never stood a chance.”

The man grumbled, more to himself than to Ian. “He coulda just said he was a queer. A queer with hepatitis.”

“Lip would never do that to-- he wouldn’t.” Ian curled his arms around himself. “He just wouldn’t.”

Even though Ian was getting uncomfortably close to teary-eyed in front of a total stranger, the words forced their way out. Like it was _important_ to talk about him.

“So we did the only thing we could do.” 

The men shared a look, Ian’s heart lodged firmly in his throat.

The driver mulled it over. “Your brother’s in Canada?”

“Toronto.”

They remained quiet for a moment as Ian watched the trees fly by from his passenger window. A thought formed in his mind, taking root as he turned back to the older man, hunched over by a dark and wordless weight. “You lost someone?”

Light blue eyes locked onto his. His scowl looked more and more broken with each passing second. 

He sniffed, wiping his nose up and down his forearm. “So that’s how you know about fixing shit, huh?”

Ian looked puzzled.

“The van, stupid. Your…” he waved his hand in lieu of saying the word _brother_, “He taught you how to repair stuff. Huh. Motorcycles.” He nodded to himself, letting the previous topic disappear as if it never existed. “Choppers, right? Like Easy Rider?”

Ian, grateful for the shift in mood, let their agreement remain unspoken. “Yeah. Like Easy Rider.”

The man continued nodding. “Fuck yeah, Easy Rider was the shit. Ratso and I snuck in last month when it came to the Commercial Theater.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, and Ian followed its direction out the back window. He gazed into the distance, willing Chicago and all of its dead-end promises to fade away.

Ian was comforted to be in good company. He glanced again at the B-E-A-T lettering inked across the man’s knuckles, feeling at home with the rough-around-the-edges fellow southsider.

“Wait… Ratso?”

Before Ian could inquire further, the blonde’s head whipped to the opposite side of the road. “Oh, SHIT!”

Ian looked right to see three scantily-clad women barely out of their teens waving them down on the shoulder up ahead. 

“Dude, dudedudedudedude! Holy fuck, look at ‘em. Dibs on the blonde!” He smacked the back of his hand against Ian’s bicep. “Dibs on the one next to her, too. Looks like she’d suck you dry.”

Ian steadied the wheel as the van threatened to drift over the center lane with the man’s attention utterly glued to the women, bouncing giddily on their toes with their thumbs in the air. “I’m gonna offer ‘em a ride.” He winked salaciously at Ian. “If you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Do it and I’ll knock the teeth outta your head!”

Ian whipped around, startled by the disembodied voice coming from the back. A pile of clothing started shifting about, items falling to the dirty floor of the van. 

“What the--”

A pale, beautiful face, groggy and crumpled up in disgust, was shooting daggers at the back of the driver’s head, still hyper-focused on the women outside.

He lifted a bare, muscled bicep, and sent a shoe sailing across the interior, hitting the blonde squarely in the back of his skull.

“And stop calling me Ratso, asshole!”

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

**Friday, August 15th, 1969**

The van came screeching to a halt as the driver yelped in discomfort. The force of it slammed Ian forward, shooting both hands up against the dashboard console to brace himself for impact.

The blonde cranked his arm over the driver’s seat, and threw a middle finger in the brunet’s direction. “You said you weren’t gonna cockblock me anymore, Mickey! You said! Any girl I wanted to pound, you were gonna let me, even if you were in the same room. We had this all planned out!”

With palms still pressed against the warm vinyl, Ian turned in mild horror to look out his open window at said women, the three of them standing right within earshot, each of them eyeing the greasy looking driver in discomfort. They lowered their thumbs in unison.

Ian poked his head through the wide space. “Oh, not you guys. He doesn’t mean--” 

One girl brought her arms across her chest to cover her cleavage. 

The driver nodded at them slowly, returning their stare. His sleazy grin crept from one cheek to the other. “You like what you see?” He bit his bottom lip for extra measure.

Ian sank into his seat. He closed his eyes, hoping it would remove him from association.

He heard some rustling in the back. The rear window popped open, and Mickey stuck his head out, “Ay! This ain’t a soup kitchen. Beat it.”

They turned and walked briskly in the other direction, thumbs out for a ride from _anyone_ else. 

“See Iggy? No one wants to bang you. Now keep driving.” 

Ian glanced over his shoulder. The man from the clothes pile was looking murderous, aiming his taut expression and sky high eyebrows in the driver’s direction.

His black t-shirt was stretched tight over broad chest muscles, which flexed as he raked a hand through his fluffy bed head. Strands of silky black hair ran through his fingers, falling to frame strained blue eyes. His pinched features formed an impressive scowl, and Ian was struck with the confirmation that these two were indeed brothers. 

“And stop telling strangers our business.” He shot a pointed glare at Ian. Somewhere in his traitorous mind, the part that left him open to getting his ass kicked, Ian found the encouragement to not look away, but to continue staring back. And the more offended the man became from Ian’s obvious appreciative gazing, the more he found him endearing.

Enticing, even.

This short interaction had managed to take his mind off of things entirely. Ian grinned, and allowed himself the space to go with the flow. To let this day take him where it may.

“Not a problem, Mickey,” Ian responded, grinning wider when the man scoffed at the use of his name. “We can talk about me, instead. My name’s Ian. Ask me anything you’d like.”

When the man tipped his head and groaned in annoyance, Ian chuckled and turned back to the driver, still stewing in anger.

“Don’t waste your time talking to Ratso. He likes to ruin a good time.” Iggy watched the girls through his rearview mirror as they walked further and further away. “I coulda persuaded them!”

“Cause girls find it real charming when you stare at their tits the whole time they’re talkin to you, like some sorta brain-dead vegetable. Can’t even swallow your own drool mid-sentence, for chrissake. And I’m sure they consider your dirty caveman look a real turn on.”

Ian glanced underneath the back window and found a single, tiny pillow tucked away at the man’s side. He wondered how anyone could sleep through the what sounded like a jet engine held together with screws. 

Carefully treading water between wanting to know where Mickey was headed and not pressing too hard for more personal info, Ian offered, “I don’t suppose you’ll be heading past Bethel, will you?”

“If it’s on the way to New York City,” he shrugged. “The fuck is in Bethel?”

Ian grinned victoriously as the van sputtered in effort and merged back onto the highway.

.

After Ian had regaled them with reported tales of the glory to behold at the Woodstock festival, with a surprisingly attentive Iggy interrupting to occasionally ask about the female attendees (“You know them hippies don’t even wear bras?” he’d announced with a proud, cheesing smile), Mickey spoke up for the first time since Iggy’s failed attempt at picking up hitchhikers.

“We need gas.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“We’re in Ohio.”

“Oh.” Iggy glanced at the fuel gauge. “Shit.”

Ian had been sneaking glances at Mickey throughout the past hour, finding more to explore each time he looked.

Like how Mickey’s expression seemed almost wistful as he watched out his window, taken with whatever he was lost in. 

It wasn’t until he’d glance back at the front of the van, or look down to pick at the sides of his nails, that Ian could see the weight he carried with him. His face was at once soft and delicate, and aged with the wear of stress beyond his years.

Ian was captivated.

As Iggy turned off of the highway, a large building busy with multiple gas pumps and a dozen scattered gas jockeys came into view. 

“Wow,” Ian said breathlessly. “I’ve heard about these.”

“What is this?”

“It’s like… imagine combining a gas station with a grocery store. Some even have hot-serve food inside.”

Pulling up to the stall on the right, the brothers frowned at the sight, a testament to the future of technology in customer service. 

A fresh-faced boy who looked barely out of high school approached the driver side window. “How can I help you gentlemen today?”

“Iggy, don’t give ‘em the keys,” Mickey warned. 

The older Milkovich stared him down darkly. “We want gas.” 

“Premium or unleaded?” The chipper lilt of his voice was impenetrable.

Iggy sniffed, “Whatever.” He popped open the door, stepping out with all of the intimidation he could muster. “Fucking starving.” 

He stepped into the jockey’s personal space. “You steal this van, and I’ll track you down and gut you like a fish.”

“Ig!” Mickey's voice carried from the back of the van.

“I’m like a bloodhound.”

“Walk the fuck away, Iggy.”

The boy’s smile didn’t waver as he furthered, “Full tank coming up, sir!”

Iggy made a show of pocketing the keys, and they jangled noisily in his cargo pants as he sauntered past.

When Ian stepped out of the van, his feet carried him around to the back, instinctively waiting for Mickey to join them. 

The hatch kicked open, and the brunet exited the back of the van with the cool grace of an action star. 

He pulled a comb out of the back pocket of his jeans, stretching firm biceps up to comb his hair into place. The cigarette hanging from his lips made for a complimentary fixture, like it was a natural extension of his personality. 

His jeans were comfort fitting, accenting his strong thighs and the smooth curve of his posterior. His shirt showed off his strong form, and he had both of the short sleeves rolled up even tighter.

Iggy watched the primping session, unamused. “Thinks he’s Brando, or somethin’.”

“I’d’ve said James Dean, myself,” Ian responded a little more dreamily than he intended to. 

Mickey’s eyes darted over at the comment. He searched Ian’s face for something, then slowly trailed them down to fully take in Ian for the first time. They lingered on Ian’s bare chest, on display underneath his open blouse. 

Eyes admiring Ian’s face one last time, Mickey returned the comb to his back pocket. His lips fidgeted with the cigarette, and he turned to march past Ian into the store. 

“Take a picture next time, Opie. It’ll last longer.”

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

**Friday, August 15th, 1969**

Strolling up to the door of the gas station mini mart, Ian was impressed with the loudspeakers positioned at every corner, over the pumps and surrounding the building. They projected the kind of family-friendly mainstream music the early half of the decade had embraced. 

The song currently playing was predictably bubble gum pop, something toe-tapping and embarrassing in equal measure.

_Ah sugar, ah honey honey_

Ian’s mind took him back to the south side, sitting in the middle of the old couch at their place on Homan, watching cartoons with his younger siblings. Debbie on his left, and little Carl on his right. The animated characters from the Archies comics were serenading themselves over to a kissing booth, drowning out the sounds of Fiona and Frank arguing in the kitchen, a screaming baby Liam flailing in her arms. The scent of french toast and coffee wafted into the living room.

_You are my candy girl, and you've got me wanting you_

But it was already unbearably hot for late springtime, with the only fan sitting broken and lifeless next to the tv. They gripped the collars of their shirts in their hands, flapping the material against their skin in a desperate move to cool themselves down.

The foreboding family memory was washed away as quickly as it had come by the blast of coolness on Ian’s skin.

He felt it the moment he opened the door, before he had even stepped fully inside the store. He could feel it on his neck, the beads of sweat from the summer heat turning chilled. 

His chest was slick from riding in a van with no functioning air circulation system except for the open windows, his blouse slightly clinging to his damp skin.

Even his right arm, pinkening under the bright sunlight as it rested on the passenger window sill, was already feeling relief.

Despite Iggy’s lead foot and reckless driving, the breeze on the highway no match for the temperature shift they were experiencing now.

Iggy looked befuddled to the point of being offended. “Now how’d they pull this shit off?” The breeze hadn’t been much help to the elder Milkovich, either. Iggy’s heavy clothing left him looking drenched, like he’d just run a marathon.

In fact, both of the brothers looked like the leap in customer comfort had left them jarringly out of place. 

Ian turned to the girl sitting at the register, engrossed in the fashion magazine sprawled across the counter in front of her. 

“You guys have air conditioning in here?”

She shrugged one shoulder with indifference, never once looking up at them. “Yeah.” The section of long blonde tresses she had flipped over her shoulder fell back immediately, cascading onto the pages. 

Ian continued, openly awestruck with childlike wonder, “In a gas station?” It was even more impressive than he had imagined. He had heard tales of these advancements in technology, but Ian couldn’t recall a single time he had ever been in anyone's _home_ that had such luxury.

He felt kind of special, being there, two steps into the future. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the temperature wash over him. This trip had opened up new possibilities to him in ways he hadn’t predicted. His old life was feeling smaller and smaller.

Opening his eyes again, the cashier still was engrossed in her magazine, her glossy pink lips moving in tandem as she chewed her gum.

His companions having already spread out in different directions, Ian stepped closer to the long shelving full of candies, the smell of sugary sweetness luring him in like a sucker. 

An endless array of colorful packages lie side by side. Starbursts, Swedish Fish, Lemonheads, Now & Laters (now in chocolate!), Sweet Tarts, Pixy Stix… each one enticing, each one tugging at the heartstrings of his childhood.

They may not have had much money growing up, but they had numerous hands and large pockets. In hindsight, encouraging his children to help themselves to any candy they saw may have been the most fatherly act Frank Gallagher had ever achieved.

Ian smiled when his eyes landed on the Satellite Wafers. Of course the space race would influence the snacking habits of American youth. They all wanted to be astronauts.

They were essentially Necco Wafers, but outshone the predecessors at their left with packaging, advertising, and intent. Necco Wafers had been around for nearly a century; Satellite Wafers were something new for the space age. The saucer-shaped pockets held tiny candy pellets inside their shells. Biting into one, you could pretend you were a giant snapping into a UFO.

Just to the right were the bolder flavors, like Razzles, Sour-bomb Zotz, Hot Tamales,and Atomic Fireballs. Ian instantly recognized the orange packaging with red letters. 

People took for granted just how dark this name truly was. Fiona had told him stories of her elementary class practicing bomb attack drills in schools. Afterward, they could swap candies on the playground that featured a mushroom cloud on the package.

The next head-scratcher was Pez, the Austrian treat that allowed the American youth to suck on the neck of an assortment of characters. An astronaut (of course), Olive Oyl, and Mickey Mouse. 

Ian allowed himself a moment to envision what it might be like to suck on the neck of a Mickey he knew. His finger gently tugging at a candy necklace, gifted and accepted willingly. Licking heat-melted candied sugar off of Mickey’s throat in long, slow traces of his tongue.

He glanced up to find Mickey looking right at him from the cigarette section. The brunet turned away in baffled innocence, eyebrows high as if Ian had been making accusations.

Ian smiled, and continued on to his favorite section: the chocolate candies.

If there was any constant in Ian’s life during the past decade, it would be his undying love of chocolate. In fact, it was on his 9th birthday in 1960 that his older brother had snagged him something particularly special from the new chocolate boutique on North Michigan Avenue, a few blocks from the waterfront. 

_“It’s a new one. Well, new to **you**, anyway.” Lip chuckled to himself at his clever joke. _

_“What is it?”_

_“It’s a Cup-O-Gold. It’s kinda like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, ‘cept instead of peanut butter inside, it’s marshmallow. And almonds.”_

_Ian had licked his lips in anticipation. “Can I have it right away?” He held his hand out eagerly. _

_“Yeah, you can have all of ‘em.” Lip fishes through his pockets, emptying the contents onto the table. “I got you nine cups, but then I ate some of ‘em on the way home.” He grinned wide._

Coming back to himself, Ian’s heart sank at the memory. 

And sure enough, sitting just beyond the older chocolates; the Lindt’s, the Hershey’s, the Toblerones and the Clark bars, was a freshly opened box of Cup-O-Golds. The red cellophane left a window in the middle to see tease a peek at the creamy chocolate inside. 

Ian dragged his eyes away from the haunting symbol to the rest of the chocolates, a visual representation of time moving forward, of new things to come. 

His hand hovered over the Rocky Road Marshmallows, shifting minutely towards the Cadbury Creme Eggs. He ultimately decided on a 100 Grand Bar, something so new he hadn't even heard of it before. 

It wasn’t until the song had ended that Ian realized how much time he’d spent lost in front of the candy section. He moved away to explore the next area of the store that caught his eye.

A familiar humming sound flooded the speakers, followed up by a trill of notes, creating a fluttering sensation in his heart.

Another childhood memory intrinsically linked to his youth in Chicago, of days spent doing homework in the booth next to the jukebox at the Alibi.

But this one was packed with a lot more hope for the future.

His eyes searched quickly for their target, landing on Mickey just as the bass hit.

_It's now or never, come hold me tight_

His lifelong musing of what it might feel like to fall in love had subconsciously connected itself to the force of nature quietly judging the endless variety of mutli-pack cigarettes.

_Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight_

The air in his lungs grew thick, his chest constricting with the most wonderful sensation of anticipation and curiosity.

Mickey turned to meet his fixed gaze. It was as if he could read Ian’s thoughts, feel the longing in his fingertips from across the aisle. 

The bass piano chords accompanying Elvis’s smooth vocals set an unnaturally romantic mood for their current activity. Ian stared openly into blue eyes, and was in awe of how long Mickey continued to stare back into his. Like there had been some silent agreement that this was okay, that they were in their own bubble where no one else could ever be privy to their yearnings. 

Until the moment had passed, and the crooner’s third line warned of a fleeting today and a tomorrow full of endings. Mickey’s eyes grew mournful, his forehead creased between them. 

A loud commotion sounded from the other side of the store. Iggy had knocked over a display of toy guns, and was cursing the plastic bin from whence they came. 

“Every fucking time, Iggy. Goddamnit.” 

Ian glanced over his shoulder at the cashier, who looked less than enthused. She shook her head in annoyance, large hoop earrings swaying with effort. 

.

As Mickey ensured that Iggy picked up after himself, arms crossed with an impatient grimace as his older brother complained of the solo chore, Ian got a good look at the items in the boys side of the toy section.

Molded plastic battle sets with army men, G.I. Joes, and cowboys and indians sat next to war toys like guns, swords, cannons, and tanks. Model cars, electric trains, Johnny Speed Race Cars, and Matchbox sets mingled with Lego bricks, image projectors, pinball machines and electric sports games. From the convenience of your lap, one could play a plastic rendition of a football, baseball, hockey or basketball game.

Ian frowned at the shelves full of licensed items, bearing famous likenesses onto toys mass-produced for a quick buck. Disney, Warner Brothers, Dennis the Menace, Batman, Popeye, Bozo the Clown, Flintstones, Peanuts… seemingly everyone had their hand in the new merchandising craze.

Past the Punch-Me Inflatable Punching Bags, Jack-in-the-Box, Rocking Horses, just before the toy section took a sharp turn into pink dolls and miniature baking ovens, lie the board games. Mouse Trap, Ouija Board, Candy Land, Twister, Operation, Where’s Willie?, and Kerplunk.

Ian smiled at the thought of a small Carl, chewing on a plastic gingerbread man mid-game. He had later found all four tokens melted together in the backyard; a morbid, rainbow-colored end to their quests.

Iggy whooped aloud as he sighted a black cowboy hat amongst the Wild Frontier displays. He checked out his reflection in the mirror, adding some cheap sunglasses to complete the look. 

Still admiring his creation, Iggy called out to Ian. “Guess who I am?”

“Don’t answer him.” Mickey advised. “He’s just quoting a movie. He’s been on this kick all goddamn summer.”

Iggy turned around with flair, sauntering over to Ian with bowed legs and his hands on both hips. 

“Uh…” Ian hesitated at Mickey’s warning eyebrows. “A cowboy?” 

Iggy stared back in silence, his humorous getup waiting expectantly for a proper response.

Ian hemmed. “Someone from Gunsmoke?”

Iggy leaned into Ian’s space and repeated himself. “Guess who I am?”

“...Who are you?”

He took off his glasses and laughed. “It’s me!” 

Ian looked to Mickey for assistance, who shook his head in disgust.

“You know, like the movie?” Iggy splayed a hand expectantly.

“What movie?”

“You brought this on yourself.” The brunet shot Ian a sour face of disapproval, and walked away.

Iggy stared at Ian in shock. “Ain’t you never seen Midnight Cowboy?”

Ian recalled seeing the title across the matinee at the old theater. “That the one with the guy from The Graduate?”

The older man looked around himself in exasperation, arms out, like someone will materialize out of thin air to save him from this madness. 

“It’s the one with JOE BUCK!” Iggy’s face contorted with excitement. “Yeah, where’s that Joe Buck!” 

“So… he _is_ a cowboy?” Ian tried again.

Iggy placed his thumbs and forefingers atop the non-existent belt buckle over the waist of his khakis. His words slurred with what Ian assumed was supposed to be a southern accent. “Well, sir, I ain’t a for-real cowboy. But I am one helluva stud.”

Ian bit his lip to suppress a smirk. “Is this cowboy act going to work out for you in New York, though? That’s a thing of the past for the big city, isn’t it?”

“That’s the whole point!”, Iggy spat, his native Chicago accent full of fire. “Those rich ladies, got nothin’ to do but spend money.” His face curled up into a cheshire grin so comical that his eyes squinted shut. “Spend money on _me_. Big Tex is gonna show ‘em what they’re missing.”

Iggy adjusted his stance and resumed his attempt at southern articulation. “Lotta rich women back there, Ralph, begging for it, paying for it, too...and the men - they're mostly tutti fruttis. So I'm gonna cash in on some of that, right?...Hell, what do I got to stay around here for? I got places to go, right?”

He offered no further explanation, and ignored the pointed “Shut the fuck up!” coming from the other end of the store. 

“That… could work,” Ian nodded cautiously.

“You’re missing out, man. It’s a classic. Joe Buck is a legend among women. I’m gonna be up to my neck in it.” His face flattened. “If Ratso doesn’t keep scaring ‘em off.”

“Oh, that’s where you got his nickname from?”

A woman’s voice cut them off. “You have to pay for those.” 

She eyed Iggy suspiciously, who seemingly just now remembered that there was a female in the room with him.

He eyed her appreciatively from afar, then murmured to himself, Texan accent back in full swing, “I ain’t no kinda hustler…” With a wink to Ian, he added, “I mean, I am, but…” He doubled over in a fit of silent giggles, then turned to give himself one last once over in the mirror.

Resting his hand atop his hat, he spoke aloud, “You know what you gotta do, cowboy.” He shot his fingers into the mirror like tiny pistols. 

Iggy strutted up to the register to the beat of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” by the Supremes. Ian wondered if Iggy was ever aware he was doing it. His attempted cool swagger looked more like an awkward mating dance. 

He slipped the glasses back on as he joined Mickey at the counter. When the blonde glanced up from her magazine, she shot Iggy a skeptical look. “Is this supposed to be some sort of Midnight Cowboy thing?”

Elated, Iggy nearly kissed her on the spot. He slipped further into character, “We ain't gonna have to steal no more, that's what I'm tryin' to tell ya. I've got eight bucks in my damn pockets, twenty more come Thursday, boy. We're gonna be ridin' easy before very long, I'm gonna tell ya.”

Mickey shoved him aside, planting both hands on the counter and announcing in a no-nonsense tone. “Just the cigarettes and the snacks. He wants to look like a clown, he can pay for it himself.”

She tallied up Mickey's order, looking more than ready for this transaction to be over.

Iggy’s face turned beat red. He leaned in conspiratorially, using his regular voice. “Don’t pay attention to Ratso. He doesn’t know shit about talking to a fine woman like you.”

Ignoring the botched flirting entirely, her face lit up in recognition. “Oh, Ratso! I loved him!” She looked at Mickey with wide eyes, batting her eyelashes with gusto. “He was my favorite character in that movie.”

Iggy’s mouth scrunched up in disbelief. 

Mickey scratched at his eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s great. We done here?”

She tilted her head to the side in sympathy. “Have you got some sort of illness, too?” She gasped at her own words. “Is that why you guys are driving that trash heap around? One last trip to Florida before he dies?” She covered her mouth with both hands.

“I don’t have an illness.”

Iggy’s face turned dark. “His illness is none ‘a anyone else’s business!”

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Ian watched the exchange intently, his heart beating faster.

“Oh my god, that’s so sad!” She looked genuinely torn. “That he explains why he looks so…” She waved her hand in the general area of Mickey. “Is he close to the end?”

“I’m not fucking dying!”

“We don’t have to tell you a goddamn thing about it!” Iggy’s voice boomed. “Not you, not the government, not fucking Nixon, either!”

Mickey left his items behind and marched out of the store. He paced back and forth in front of the closed doors.

The boys watched him for a moment as he lit a cigarette, too busy muttering to himself to smoke it.

Iggy turned back to the blonde. “You tell anyone about this, and I will track you down, and I--

“Iggy!” Ian cut in. “I got this. Go get the van for us, I'll be right out.”

Iggy stared the woman down coldly, hand on his hat as he made his way out. “I’m not paying you shit for these.” He slammed the door behind him.

Ian sighed heavily. “How much do I owe you?”

She did a mental count, not bothered in the slightest by the interaction. Ian looked over the collection of Mickey’s snacks, the pack of cigarettes he walked out with, Iggy’s hat and sunglasses, and Ian’s 100 Grand Bar. 

"That'll be $4.19." 

He pulled a five dollar bill out of his wallet, and laid it on the table with an apologetic smile. As she bagged up the items, he glanced outside in time to see Mickey knock the hat off of Iggy's head, scooping it off the ground and shoving it into a trash can. They argued inaudibly, with Mickey stomping off to the van, and Iggy wiping away bits of trash from his prized hat in vain.

"Uh, you know what? Keep the change." He took the bags from her, ready to return to the highway, headed out towards their next adventure. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested in hearing the songs that have been referenced in this story so far: 
> 
> "All You Need is Love" The Beatles
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zRW-A5aDuU
> 
> "Sugar, Sugar" The Archies
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9nE2spOw_o
> 
> "It's Now or Never" Elvis Presley
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkMVscR5YOo
> 
> "You Keep Me Hangin' On" The Supremes
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkDEGKe6Wto


	4. Chapter 4

.

**Friday, August 15th, 1969**

Iggy cursed to himself as he dialed his way through static. The crackle of the would-be radio stations failing to come through had him smacking the console like an errant jukebox.

“Guess they never heard ‘a music in buttfuck Pennsylvania.”

“It’s because of the mountains.” Ian peered down in awe at the Appalachian range from their elevated view. “There’s not enough signal to pick up any stations.”

He’d read about the scenic peaks and valleys in his old geography textbooks, but nothing had prepared him for the magnitude of it. The upper range consisted of sloping ridges, crests, and forests. The foreground was littered with trees of varying greens, contrasting with the earthier browns of the hillside. The middle shifted into a bluer tone, fading lighter and lighter as each peak revealed another behind it. 

It continued on for as far as he could see, reminding Ian of the trick mirrors he saw inside a carnival funhouse when he was a child. This, though, was more like a painting. He wondered what it would be like to sit along the sun-filled mountain peaks, breathing in the fresh air and taking in the colors.

“Guess that means you’re gonna turn it off and give this whole driving thing a shot?” Mickey kicked at a wooden crate full of junk, angled precariously at his immediate right. “Between your bitching and this vibrating tin can on wheels, I can’t even hear myself think.”

Mickey might’ve been laying it on thick, but Ian could tell the erratic driving was grinding him down, making him feel unsettled.

Iggy veered to the left, purposely shifting the contents of the van around. He cackled openly at the sound of bags tipping over, knowing by Mickey’s stream-of-consciousness tantrum that they had spilled in the brunet’s direction. His scruffy face was beaming, the gleeful grin showing a full range of teeth and gums. 

Ian, on the other hand, was white-knuckling his door handle. No stranger to reckless car rides, Ian had always experienced them at safe and reliable ground level. Iggy was doing this on a narrow highway lane at 7,000 feet in the air.

Against his better judgement, he looked out his window. The road beneath them sped by at a dizzying pace; the shoulder of the highway getting smaller as Iggy’s focus waned.

The mountains beyond stared back at him in silent challenge. It was a long, long way to the bottom.

“Pull over. I’m driving.”

“No can do, little bro.” He laughed as he stepped on the gas, zooming around a semi-truck. 

"Jesus fuck, Iggy, SLOW DOWN." The words had left Ian's mouth before he'd even realized he was speaking. 

Iggy propped an unimpressed eyebrow at the passenger seat, his usual dopey expression filled with derision. He chewed at the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Didn't think you'd be such a girl about it.” He slowed nonetheless, almost dropping down to the speed limit.

Ian peered at the back of the van, cringing at the situation behind him. The van was seat-less, except for the driver and passenger seats up front. The rest of the van had been gutted, filled with so much junk that he could barely see the floor. 

Littered amongst the soft flooring were several bags, some half-emptied and scattered in disarray. The others remained intact, most of the contents obscured. Ian couldn’t tell if they contained trash or personal belongings. The stuffy air in the van only smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke, so he was guessing there wasn’t much actual garbage inside, aside from the discarded food wrappers, a couple of empty cigarette cartons, and more than a few empty beer cans. The snapped neck of an old acoustic guitar poked out of the top of the smallest bag.

Lying loose on the floor were an assortment of nuts and bolts, some tucked into the crevices and corners. The tire iron and hydraulic jack from earlier tossed carelessly onto a heap of blankets, some clothing and a boot peeking out from the bottom. 

A pile of Playboy magazines sat in a messy pile next to an old wooden crate, “Coca-Cola” stamped to its side. Inside were more beer cans, opened and unopened, some cans of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, brass knuckles, baseball bats (and surprisingly, a glove and a baseball to go with them), and a spindle of metal chains. 

And that was just what he could discern from the passenger seat. 

Mickey sat propped up against the hatch door, his small pillow tucked in between. “Knew I shoulda tossed all this out when I had the chance.” He kicked roughly at something with the bottom of his boot. “Why the fuck do we have a leg lamp? What are we even gonna do with that?”

“It’s for our bachelor pad,” Iggy directed at Ian. “For when we get our new place set up.”

“Sure," Mickey continued. "Chicks love to see other women’s legs as furniture when deciding whether or not they’re gonna bang you. This’ll get you real far.” Mickey lifted the lamp up to shoulder height, eyes flicking in quiet consideration between the object and the open windows next to him.

“I think it’s the fishnet stockings that’ll really seal the deal,” Ian added, throwing a companionable smirk at Mickey.

Ian would be lying if he said he didn’t understand the appeal of a cranky Mickey. Usually, that kind of endless pessimism drove him away, filling Ian with the desire to protect his positive mood from those who only sought to see the negative in life.

But with Mickey, it was different. He never sensed any hatred or ill-intentions. To the contrary, it seemed Mickey was genuinely passionate about his opinions, and needed to find validation in each one. He was restless in the way that he itched to express every reaction. 

In fact, he’d never seen so much passive rage and discontentment contained into such a beautiful and calming vessel. The crankier Mickey became, the more Ian felt all of his thoughts and feelings fixated on the pull of his aggressive energy. It made him appreciate the concept of being present in the moment more than ever. He wondered, quietly, if he'd always been drawn to such qualities in a person. If he had even had a "type" before Mickey.

Maybe Frank had been right. Maybe there really was something fundamentally wrong with him.

“So…” he posed, thoughts shifting to the deteriorating outside of the van. “Had this thing for long?”

“Picked it up at the scrapyard. Real cheap.” 

“Is that why there are no seats?” 

“We always gut our transports. Can’t haul heavy shit around if there’s no place to put it. 

Ian nodded in recognition. “Lip and I once tried to squeeze a ball chair into the backseat of a Chevy Bel Air. Ended up tying it to the roof. Wasn’t until we got home that Fiona explained to us that her boyfriend’s car was a convertible, and we could’ve just put it in the back once the top was down.

Iggy grunted, patting his vest pocket in search of his cigarette pack. “And the rest of this stuff we got for free. Guy that ran the place let us grab what we wanted, s'long as it was sitting out in trash bags.”

Iggy spotted his pack on the floor, reaching between his ankles to retrieve it. 

The van careened left, and Iggy over-corrected to the right to keep from crashing into the rock wall.

The tires spun, kicking up loose dirt and pebbles. He cranked the wheel hard to avoid crashing into the barrier, the only thing keeping them from hurtling off the cliff.

The tension inside the van was frozen thick, both men sitting silent, breaths held tight in their chests as their eyes widened in terror. 

Ian whipped his head around to look at Mickey. 

Coiled up against the hatch with both arms wrapped loosely around his ribs, Mickey’s face betrayed him. He was in pain, and failing to force his expression into neutral.

“Mickey?” Ian croaked the name before his own lungs had regained function. 

Iggy shifted the van into park, and reanimated himself slowly back to life as he slumped into his seatback. “Fuuuuck this.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “How do we get offa this fucking mountain?”

“Hey Mickey, are you okay?”

The concern in Ian’s voice had Iggy glancing backwards. “Oh, shit.” His features shifted into something guilt-ridden. “His ribs ain’t healed, yet.”

“Shut the fuck up, Iggy!” The pain in his expression amplified, laced with embarrassment. 

A thought passed, and Ian pulled up the rucksack he had placed between his feet on the passenger floor. He rifled through it, long fingers searching for their target. 

“I’ve got something that'll help.”

“You can keep your Ibuprofen, Mary Poppins. If I wanted the medical expertise of a teenage drifter, I’d have said so.”

“Eighteen, actually,” Ian murmured to himself. 

Finding his intended item, he lifted a small Altoids tin from the bottom of his bag. He carefully removed the top, picking up a tightly rolled joint between his fingertips. 

He held it high for the brunet to see, smirking as the arrogance slid right off of his face. 

Iggy looked stunned, the dopey grin kickstarting his face into gear before his brain could form a coherent thought. 

Mickey looked back and forth between the proffered joint and his brother’s pathetic countenance. “Iggy, stop drooling and bring it to me.”

“I’ve got you,” Ian said confidently.

He lifted up off of the passenger seat, twisting around to slide himself through the narrow divide before Mickey could protest. He slid a bag aside with his foot, keeping one hand out for balance.

Having maneuvered himself over the scattered items, he braced his free hand against the back window and lowered himself until he was face to face with Mickey.

It was sensual, the way Ian’s body slid down in front of him, thigh muscles straining in his tight jeans. The way Mickey’s eyes bounced all over Ian once he had found a comfortable crouch.

Ian noticed, and returned the appreciative perusal. When his eyes landed on Mickey's, his veins flooded with lust and a sudden burst of possessive need. 

The same emboldening feeling from this morning echoed back, encouraging him to maintain eye contact, not to pull away at the intensity of Mickey's daring gaze. Ian could only imagine many countless others had shrunk away at the brunet’s impressively honed level of intimidation.

But Ian loved nothing more than to hold his ground in a challenge. 

Then Mickey licked his bottom lip and let his front teeth drag it into his mouth, biting down softly.

Ian had to pull himself away before he chased after it with his own mouth.

Ian braced a knee on the floor and casually raised the joint to eye level. He twisted his hand around slowly, joint nestled between the upper joints of his fingers, holding it out in offer to Mickey at close proximity.

Instead of reaching for it, Mickey leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the tip of it, maintaining eye contact.

Ian's eyes grew heavy-lidded, and Mickey snickered at the small victory. He slowly removed the spliff from Ian's loose grip, head pulling back only a few inches.

His own lighter was already in-hand with the top flipped open. In true Milkovich style, he flicked at the spark wheel with smooth execution, inhaling deeply. His eyebrows had achieved mock-level form, the _what now?_ gesture daring Ian to make the next move. 

He took a moment to fully enjoy the burning comfort, holding it motionless in his chest. Knowing he had Ian's full attention, he pulled it away and let the smoke snake out of his mouth, expertly inhaling it back up through his nose. 

The tension inside the van had become thick and disorienting in a matter of a minute, and Ian was scrambling to keep up. 

Ian placed a palm against the hatch door just above Mickey’s shoulder. Bracing himself, he slowly leaned forward, eyes dipping down and dragging themselves back up Mickey’s torso.

When he was inches from Mickey’s face, he slid a subtle hand up and retrieved the joint, inhaling a hit for himself. Two can play at that game. 

Something playful flashed in Mickey’s eyes, adding a twinkle to the dark gaze. Something recognized, as hopeful as it was demanding.

His tongue darted out again, leaving his bottom wet and inviting. Ian felt fingertips graze the top of his knee, trailing ever so slowly up his thigh.

The rumbling of the van reigniting startled Ian out of his trance. The floor beneath his knees shook and rumbled, the pounding in his ears amplified by the god-forsaken engine.

Blissfully unaware of the moment he had interrupted, Iggy grumbled, "Don't let him smoke all of it! He always does that!" The all but forgotten driver leaned to the side, inspecting Ian's Altoids tin left open on the passenger seat. His lips moved as he took a silent count of how many were left inside.

The blood pumping frantically through Ian’s heart had rushed back up from his crotch, the half-mast erection now awkwardly noticeable without the sexual heat of their intimately tense interaction.

The moment having clearly passed, Mickey snatched the joint from Ian’s hand. “Might wanna go take over driving before he Butch Cassidy's us off a cliff."

With that, he effectively ended the conversation by looking out the window to his right, focusing on the blue skies as if Ian had already left. 

By the time Ian had climbed into the driver’s seat, Mickey had shifted his whole body to the side, leaned against the hatch door with his arm once again wrapped around his injured side, and continued to smoke in solitude.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had split this chapter into two for faster updating, but then this one ended up doubling in size, anyway. :::Shrugs:::

.

**Friday, August 15th, 1969**

Ian’s fingers drummed furiously atop the dashboard, his pulse jumping with the uptempo shift in bass guitar; the brass section in full swing. His head swayed with the beat, feeling the warmth spreading through his veins. Ian lived for getting lost in the soul of a song.

The verbal jabs from the back paused momentarily, but Ian took no chances. He shushed Mickey in advance.“C’mon, just let me get through this last part-- it’s the best part of the whole track!”

The climax of the song hit, and Ian’s smile was stretched from cheek to cheek as he sang. “_Leeeeeeeeet the sunshine… leeeeeeeeeet the sunshine in_.” The bass reverberated through the shitty speakers, but Ian dug the literal vibrations with a visceral fire. “_The suuuuuuuuuuuun shine iiiiiiiinnnnnn…_”

He glanced into the rearview mirror, tilted downward early on to include all of Mickey’s face, and not just the top of his head. “_Leeeeeeeeeeet--_”

“This is painful.”

Ian continued with a grin as bright as sunshine. “_...the sunshiiiiiiiiine…_”

“All of it. This song, your singing… your face. Your face is painful, Ian.”

Admittedly, he did have an upward fist clenched inches from his face, adding a dramatic flair to his performance. At least it didn’t affect his driving.

Ian beamed. “Iggy loves my singing. Don’t you, Iggy?”

Ian glanced to his right. Iggy was out cold, slumped into the same position he had been for the last two sleep-filled hours: wedged into the crevice between the passenger door and the seat back, shoulders hunched forward and head tilted at an angle. Fresh drool was caked on his cheek, making his days-old stubble seem like it was placed onto a cherubic painting of a child for hilarious, if not disturbing effect. 

“He said I have the voice of an angel. A stirring performance.” Ian now gestured delicately in the air, laying it on thick, “Inspiring, in fact. Gave him a sense of purpose in this universe.”

“Yeah, cause _that_ sounds like Iggy. Kid’s known around these parts for throwing his five dollar words around.” Blue eyes flicked up accusingly at the rearview.

Ian laughed joyfully. “I’m just glad we’re finally getting music stations coming in again, now that we’re passing bigger cities.”

Mickey watched the highway distance sign pass him by. “Fuck you, Brookville, Pennsylvania.” The middle finger he held up in salute at its inhabitants felt right, despite knowing that no one would ever see it.

Mickey fussed with his barbecue flavored Pik Chicks, having been responsibly saved for later, like an adult. He was mid-chew when he heard the next song start up. 

“No…”

“Oh, hey, they’re playing the Beatles?” Ian turned the dial lovingly, increasing the volume as he breathed in, ready to sing along.

“Ian, the last song was bad enough.”

“_What would you think if I sang out of tune_?” Ian crooned, meeting and holding Mickey’s unimpressed gaze above him. “_Would you stand up and walk out on me_?”

Mickey groaned. “Don’t look at me and quote that proboscis monkey Ringo Star. Cymbal tapping asshole, is what he is. Me, and anyone with good taste, think you can go fuck yourself.”

Ian smirked at him. “Only two lines in, and you already knew which Beatle was singing it.”

Mickey’s eyes went wide in exposed discomfort, then narrowed in scandalized indignation. “Yeah, well…” Mickey trailed off. 

Ian chuckled, massaging a hand along the back of his neck. He glanced again at Iggy, down for the count, before shifting starry eyes back at the brunet. Mickey’s scowl was unfathomably improved upon with pink cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

“Bet you see yourself as one’a those flower children, don’t you? Go around singing at unsuspecting victims, upstanding American citizens just trying to get by...” Mickey closed his box of crackers and tossed them aside, his appetite ruined. “And then here comes Gallagher, twinkling up the place like anyone goddamn asked you to.” Mickey crossed his arms and shook his head, chewing at the inside of the side of his mouth.

He looked up to see the warm beams of Ian’s admiring gaze set directly at him.

“What?”

“You’re a Beatles fan.”

Mickey pulled his pillow up to his face, burying himself in it, pressing it tight against his cheekbones. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, he’d asphyxiate, and pass out until Ian’s vocal chords had burned out and he was rendered unable to speak.

Ian made an honest attempt to hold back, humming along wordlessly with his lips tucked in.

“You’re just as bad as Iggy. Find some Black Sabbath or turn it off.”

He heard the click, and the noise in the van lost one layer of overlap. Mickey focused on the stuffed Glad trash bag rumbling steadily at his foot, ready to burst open, leaving a trail of miscellanea in its wake. His boot tapped nervously at the thin plastic, crinkling it.

The metal chains clinked together in their spindle, and it infuriated him to realize he was just now noticing they’d been doing it all along.

He frowned, looking around him at the disorganized clutter full of empty memories. It was like transplanting the feel of his father’s house into their getaway vessel.

Nothing ever felt like home. 

The wind whipping in through the windows was yet another blanket of sound to their strained ambiance. Mickey looked to the driver’s seat. Ian’s ginger locks were a magnet to the wind, as it couldn’t keep its greedy fingers from running playfully through his hair.

A plane roared miles above them, growing steadily in obnoxious volume as it roared through the clouds. Mickey sighed deeply, squeezing his eyes shut. 

They burst open, blue fire emboldened by the fists balled up at his sides. He lurched forward, grabbing the nearest bag and flinging it backwards with a grunt. It bounced against the hatch, rolling sideways and spilling a few items of clothing, like the salty bitch that it was.

He crawled forward on his hands and knees, muttering violent threats to the rusty bolts that bit into his palms. 

He latched onto the sides of the driver’s seat chair, pulling himself forward the final two feet and steadying his sway. 

“Anyone can tell when it’s Ringo singing, okay? He’s monotone. Flat. No passion at all. I’ll bet that dude comes dry chalk dust when he jerks it.”

Ian’s eyebrows shot up in the reflection of the rearview, but his lips stayed sealed. He glanced up hesitantly, then focused on the road and nodded for Mickey to continue. 

“Have you even _listened_ to the title track? Because I don’t think you have. The only song worse on the whole album than what YOU were garbling is Yellow Submarine. Yeah, that’s right, everyone and their fucking dog has heard every miserable song those teabags have come up with, like they don’t air that shit everywhere. It’s mainstream garbage, mass-produced for twelve year old girls. At least they tried with the White Album. Helter Skelter is _real_ music. Fuck!”

He threw himself back into a sitting position, visibly antagonized. He ran through a series of hand-to-face tics, and then pulled himself back up to Ian’s eye level to continue.

“I’m not some gutter troll, asshole. I know music. And I know when someone’s phoning it in. Ringo is a breadstick with no soul, and he can’t fucking sing. It’s like they live for throwing money away every time they let him up to the mic. Like, what were they trying to do, here? Remind us that they’re the Beatles? Who doesn’t fucking know that?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhausted. 

Ian was a picture of whole-hearted bliss in the driver’s seat. His honeyed eyes dripped with green longing, and his smile was so pure that it made Mickey uncomfortable, and unable to look away. 

He shifted his knees to a more steady stance on the ground, feeling thrown off-center. He braced one hand onto the inside of the passenger seat, stabilizing his hold. 

Ian let the moment linger, breathing in the summer air, letting it charge him to full capacity. “You were right, you know. What you said about me?” Ian paused for dramatic effect, hair swaying beautifully with the breeze. “I… may enjoy singing in people’s faces.”

“Yeah? No shit.” Mickey smiled, thumbing the side of his lips in an attempt to hide it. 

“It’s true. Bit of a songwriter. Trying to be, anyway. Not that I get paid for it, or anything… I did a few gigs for free at the bar down the block from where I grew up.” Ian felt comfortable sharing this with Mickey, though he could admit that maybe something fragile in him was hoping that Mickey didn’t _actually_ hate his singing voice; that Mickey complaining about everything was simply part of the whole package. 

“Actually,” Ian added, shifting in his seat to give his lower back some respite, “I played While My Guitar Gently Weeps for them not that long ago. They fucking hated it.” Ian laughed to himself at the memory of a small crowd of drunken southside patrons, staring insolently at the long-haired folk singer, strumming away and interrupting their booze-fueled rants. 

Mickey would’ve loved it, there.

The brunet nodded politely. “George Harrison ain’t half bad.”

“He’s one of my heroes. Him and John Lennon…” Ian trailed off, then his eyes turned a shade darker, like he was weighing the outcome of pouncing on the devil’s back, and then going ahead and doing it anyway. “You know… they say that Ringo is the goofy one.”

“And Bill Ward is a real drummer,” Mickey countered, without missing a beat.

Ian grinned, eyeing Mickey coquettishly. “Maybe I should’ve played Helter Skelter for them. That song is sexy as fuck.”

Mickey licked his bottom lip. “Can’t argue with that.”

“That’s a blowjob song if I’ve ever heard one.” Ian glanced over his shoulder, eyeing Mickey up and down without a hint of shame. 

Mickey’s biceps flexed at Ian’s side, straining from their hold onto the passenger seatback. His chest rose with the slow intake of breath.

Throwing him a seductive smirk, Ian doubled-down. “Not that I’ve ever gotten any complaints about my dick-sucking skills, but I’ll bet that having that playing at the same time would’ve helped.”

Mickey sunk backward into a bag of clothing, acting as a makeshift beanbag.

Ian eyed the gear shift protruding from the dashboard, willing himself not to pull over to the side of the road and show Mickey just how much he wasn’t bluffing.

His eyes shone knowingly at Mickey in the mirror. But Mickey had turned away, so focused on the passing trees, it was like he had checked out entirely. 

Ian turned to the passenger seat to find Iggy looking right at him. His body hadn’t moved at all, but his eye contact was unwavering. His lips were turned down at the ends, his brow furrowed in a deep set between his eyes. 

He glared deeply at Ian in stone silence.

Feeling the wave of awkward tension from both of his companions, Ian turned back to face the road. Without a word, he clicked the radio on, scanning immediately for a new station. 

He used every ounce of willpower in his body to keep his eyes straight ahead as Jim Morrison sang directly to him, pouring salt into every open wound. 

_“Yeah! Come on, come on, come on, come on now touch me, baby  
Can't you see that I am not afraid? What was that promise that you made?”_

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Age of Aquarius" The 5th Dimension
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjxSCAalsBE
> 
> (2:17 is where it's at, kids.)
> 
>   
"With a Little Help From My Friends" The Beatles
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQyVW8WkOcY
> 
>   
"Helter Skelter" The Beatles
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhiFJ6L3sS0
> 
> "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" The Beatles
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bI8P6ZSHSvE
> 
> "Touch Me" The Doors
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCQ-zml9rfc
> 
> "...proboscis monkey?"
> 
> (That wasn't very nice, Mickey.)  

> 
> "But what is a Pik Chick, Nic?"
> 
> It's a barbecue-flavored Chicken in a Biskit, friend.


End file.
